demented smile

Inspired by the Bendy and the Ink Machine 2D AU made by @shinyzango and the series of comics made by @squigglydigg. Kept typing in the stream chat while Squiggs was making that comic series, so here’s a full version of those thoughts since folks seemed to like it! -WondersOfLife

Your husband’s untimely death left
you broken to pieces and incapable of opening your heart to anybody else.
That’s why your father can’t understand how The Joker got under your skin since
he believes The King of Gotham is the last person worthy of your affection. And
you finally ask yourself the same thing because J really crossed the line: he
got rid of your wedding ring, the only token of your lost love you swore you
won’t part with.

Today 10:35am

“Stop yelling at me!” you frown and
The Joker gets in your face, enraged.

“Why are you still wearing the
wedding ring, hm? Your husband is dead!” J keeps on going, pissed one of his
deals went up in flames and he is taking it out on you. You’ve been fighting for
the last twenty minutes: both fired up, shouting mean things back and forth.

You take a deep breath, biting on
your cheek.

“Shut up…” you mumble, upset his
insensitivity is hurting so much.

“He’s been fucking dead for years!” J
continues, ignoring your request and shoves you against the rail of the balcony.
“Take it off !!!” he commands, forcefully grabbing your hand and trying to get
to your ring.

You push him away, attempting to run
but he grabs your waist, slamming you on the couch and gets on top of you while
you struggle to flee.

“What are you doing? Let go !” you
wiggle under his weight and whimper when one of his knees firmly get in between
your legs, making it impossible to get up. “Stop it !” you pull on his jacket,
screaming when he pins your hands above your head, slowly sliding your wedding
ring off your finger.

“Piece of shit trinket !” The Joker
huffs, so mad he can’t even think at this point; the fact that you are fighting
back doesn’t help. “You can’t keep this! I’m sick of seeing it all the time!”
he shouts in your ear and you try to bite him. “Feisty, aren’t we?” he growls
and pushes himself more into you, leaving you breathless for a few seconds. J
takes advantage of your lowered resistance and snatches the treasure, getting
up in a hurry.

“Please don’t take my ring !” you beg,
starting to cry when he glares at you with madness in his eyes. “Please give it
back,” the sorrowful plea just brings a huge grin on his face. You get off the
couch too, walking towards him with shaky legs, terrified of what he might do.

“You want it back?” he pants, grinding
his teeth.

You nod a yes, watching in horror
when J suddenly turns towards the city, throwing the wedding ring off the
balcony as far as he can.

“You can’t have it back!”

You gasp, unable to move.

“My…my ring…” you mutter, shocked.
“Why did you do that for?…” you gulp and more tears roll down your cheeks
even if you can’t cry at this point.

The Joker doesn’t answer; he enjoys
his little triumph but the demented smile freezes on his lips when he sees the
look in your eyes.

“Why did you do that for?…” you
repeat, sniffling, completely at a lack of words. You stare at each other for a
few seconds before you turn around and leave.

He doesn’t stop you.

***************

1 month ago

“Just look at his mug!” your father
points at the laptop screen, bothered by your persistence in dating The Clown
Prince of Crime. “He looks completely
gone with the wind!” your dad concludes, logged into the FBI Most Wanted
website. That’s how he likes to refer to J’s amazing personality: either “gone with the wind” or “not all at home”.

You sigh, underlining the obvious:

“Dad, your picture is right next to
his…”

“So?! That doesn’t count!! I’m your
father!” Jase fumes, irritated.

Known as The Godfather, the mobster
is the leader of New York and Chicago gangs. He visits Gotham very often with
business and will stay at the penthouse for a few days (at your insistence, of
course). You’ve been with The Joker for
about a year and Jase’s opinion is unchanged: he doesn’t like your boyfriend
and the feeling is reciprocal. But they have black market deals to honor so
here you are: déjà vu situation and nothing to do but try to avoid conflict.

“Hello Padre,” J walks in the living
room, home at last after being away all day. You father hates the nickname
given by the blue eyed pest so he mutters through his clenched jaw:

“Clown,” comes out instead of a
formal acknowledgement.

“I’m glad you made it safe and sound
Padre,” he smirks and rushes to kiss you, just to piss off your parent, aware
there is nothing he can do about it. J purrs, holding your waist with one hand
and groping your butt with the other while you pinch his arm, breaking the
kiss.

“Seriously baby…” you whisper and
Jase rolls his eyes, scoffing.

He can’t stand The Joker and that feeling of wanting to blow his brains
out is becoming unbearable.

Your dad noticed something was going
on at a meeting where The Joker said something random and you were the only one
that laughed like crazy.

“So flippin’ funny,” you kept on
cracking up in the background and J was surprised someone got the reference to
that obscure movie he was sure nobody saw. He didn’t tell it as a joke but you
got the pun regardless. A lot of people talking in the same time and yet he
still heard you talking to yourself, giggling from time to time:

“Hehehe, that was hilarious !” When
you finally looked up from your cellphone and decided to pay attention to the negotiations,
you noticed he was gazing your way. You bit on your lower lip when J discretely
winked and it meant he wanted you to wait after the gathering was done. You’ve
been secretly seeing him for a couple of months, you father didn’t know at that
point.

The meeting ended and your dad was
waiting in the limo, not understanding why you stayed behind. Jase went back
inside the hideout and almost had a stroke at the young age of 63 when he
discovered the two of you making out behind some ammo boxes. He wished to drag
you out of there, but you were a grown woman, not a little girl anymore and he
had no say in your choice. Even if your choice was the dammed green haired
Clown he could never tolerate.

His heart ached at the thought that
The Joker got under your skin, completely clueless on how to handle a
relationship, especially after he was the first one you showed real interest in since your husband’s death. The King of New York and Chicago was respected and
feared, yet nothing scared him more than his only child being hurt again after
she’s been through hell.

You married Nate when you were both
22; your father liked him so much he was planning to make the young man a full
partner and leader over the south-west branch in Chicago. After celebrating one
year of marriage, a routine health checkup revealed he had a quite advanced
stage of leukemia. Nothing was spared in order to make him better, but despite
all the efforts, the disease progressed alarmingly fast and he died within a
few months.

At 24 you were already a widow,
broken and lost without the soulmate you didn’t spend more than a day apart
from before. You grew up together and always knew he was the one; and now Nate was gone forever. Jase watched you wither and
fade under the tremendous grief of your loss, incapable of helping a daughter
that seemed to die a little bit more inside with each passing week.

And nevertheless, here you are,
offering whatever is left of your affection to a person that doesn’t deserve
it. Why do you even like The Joker? He’s so different than Nate, can’t even
compare the two of them. Your father can’t understand and it irks him to see your
feelings wasted in such a hasty manner.

“Say Padre,” J lets you go and your
parent’s murderous intent intensifies, “my Queen won’t be home tonight and I
can’t sleep without her. If you have insomnia, I’ll keep you company,” that eerie
grin makes Jase snort.

“I think I’m good, Clown. I’m tired
enough to sleep through the night,” the proposal is elegantly rejected. Your
father truly has class.

Unfortunately, insomnia sneaks up on
him and there he is, still awake at 1 in the morning. Maybe some cold water
will help. As soon as Jase takes the corner towards the kitchen, he sees The
Joker on the couch in the living room, rubbing his eyes and watching TV.

3:11am and still awake, tossing and
turning. Another trip to the kitchen. The Joker is still surfing the channels.

Interesting,
The Godfather puckers his lips, intrigued.

4:27am Ughh, insomnia sucks ! Another trip to get tea and
J is there, waiting for you, not being able to doze off.

5:32am This time, Jase waits on purpose and checks
on your boyfriend. He’s awake.

6:42am Your father peaks his head from behind the
wall and realizes you’re on the couch with The Joker, sleeping in his
arms. It seems he’s squeezing the life out of you and you wince, uncomfortable,
trying to move a bit.

“No…no…” he mumbles and nozzles in
your hair, clenching to you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do.

Would you look at that, the mobster scoffs, this
pretentious jerk might have something going for himself.

The next day J leaves first, wanting
to organize some things at the main hideout and you and your father will soon
follow for an important meeting involving money laundering.

“You want coffee daddy?” you smile,
opening the cupboard on top of the sink.
”I have your favorite: raspberry flavored.”

Jase is 63, but his heart still
trembles when you call him daddy; reminds him of the good old days.

“Sure, kiddo. Hey, are you ok?” he
asks while you cough, then start wheezing.

“Yeah, don’t worry, I’m fine; just my
asthma,” you get an inhaler out of a drawer next to the stove and inhale two
puffs, calming down.

“I’m glad you keep those in handy,”
the relived parent sighs.

“Oh, you have no idea, dad ! J has
them stashed all over the place. I mean, I told him it’s not a big deal and it
only hits at certain moments, but he freaked out. He makes all of our men carry
mini-inhalers in their pockets, this way I don’t have to; it’s kind of
embarrassing actually. And he ordered everyone to have at least two inhalers in
each car!”

Bullshit, Jase
reckons in his mind, passing his fingers through his perfectly styled grey
hair.

“Where are you going, daddy?“
you inquire, confused.
“Coffee
is almost done,”

“I forgot something in my car, Y/N.
I’ll be back in a sec.”

Your father takes the elevator to the
underground parking that shelters about 50 cars for the moment. He begins to
open random ones and yeap: not a single glove compartment is missing inhalers.

I’ll be damned,
he squints his eyes, heading towards a large group of henchmen waiting to
depart when you’re ready.

“Sir!” they all strengthen their
backs, saluting the honored leader.

“My daughter needs an inhaler,” he
tests the waters and sure enough everyone is digging in their pockets, taking
out the required item.

“Here you go, sir!”

“Want us to take one to her?” several
want to know, ready to fulfill the request.

“Nope, I’ll take it,” he grabs a
random inhaler from somebody and places it in his jacket.

Hm, the insolent asshole may have something going for himself, Jase concludes, annoyed.

Later in the evening, your dad enters
the laundry room at the penthouse, searching for one of his guns: he’s
backtracking on his steps, can’t remember where he left it.

You let out a scream and Jase gets
out in a hurry, closing the door behind:

“I didn’t see anything!”

The Joker has you naked on the
washing machine and he’s only wearing a purple, unbuttoned shirt.

“Oh my God, I thought you locked the
door!” you scold him, traumatized your father walked on the two of you in such
a compromising situation.

J laughs, keeping your legs around
his waist.

“Oops, I guess I didn’t. I was too
horny to care,” and he kisses you again like nothing happened.

“Get off me!” you push him away and
hop off the washing machine, upset. “So fucking embarrassing…” you mumble and
yank his shirt, covering yourself with it.

“Hey, where are you going?!” he
flares his arms around when you storm out, slamming the door. “Great !” The
Joker grumbles, looking around for something to wear but there’s nothing:
everything is in the washing machine, except his shirt…which you took. “This
will do,” he concludes, unfolding some paper towels and wrapping a layer around
his mid-section.

“Hey Pumpkin!” J shouts when he finally
emerges from the laundry room. You already have a pair of jeans and a t-shirt
on, jiggling the car keys in one hand. “What’s going on?”

“You !!!!!!” he gets shout at. “Learn
how to lock a door when we have guests!!!”

“Huh?!”

“And you !!!!!!” the anger turns
towards your dad that nonchalantly pretends to read the newspaper. “Learn how
to knock!!”

“It’s the laundry room, kiddo,” he
has the nerve to reply.

“I don’t care, dad !!!!!!!” you raise
your voice more, stomping towards the stairs since you don’t have the patience
to wait for the elevator.

“Such a temper!” your boyfriend growls,
pissed, standing in the middle of the living room with a flimsy paper
attire.

“Her mom was like that…” Jase comments
under his breath.

“You don’t say Padre ! Care to expand
on the subject?” The Joker wants to find out the gossip because your dad never
makes personal remarks.

“No,” the super short answer doesn’t
discourage The King of Gotham.

“I have a bottle of 30 years old
whiskey in my office. I’ll share if you share,” the bribing kicks in, J being
aware how much your dad likes fine quality scotch.

Jase takes a deep breath,
contemplating the offer for once.

“Put some clothes on Clown and I’ll
think about it.”

– Your father returns to the
penthouse around 10pm. After kind of - sort of chitchatting with The Joker for
a while, he had to leave for some of his own business that required immediate
attention.

The mobster heads towards his
bedroom, but the music coming from the living room makes him turn around so he
can take a look. He quietly watches in the shadows while you slowly dance with
The Joker. You seem grouchy (probably still mad from the earlier incident) and
he’s whispering something in your ear that makes you smile wider and wider.

“Really?” you chuckle and J wickedly
smirks.

“I swear on my honor!”

“That’s not good then,” you burry
your face in his neck, laughing and he spanks you, aggravated.

“Cut it out, woman!”

Jase feels bad about spying and goes
to take a shower. He decides that if you are still there when he comes out, he
will ask what he wanted to ask since his arrival: your dad wants you back to
New York for a while.

His daughter is still there after he’s
done, but he can’t interrupt. You are sitting on your favorite recliner and The
Joker is on the floor, comfortable on pillows, trapped between your legs. You
two are watching a movie and you play with his hair, caressing it, combing it
and even braid a few strands that you undo when you’re done. J purrs, enjoying
being spoiled and you massage his shoulders too. From time to time he takes
your hands and kisses them, resting his head on your knees.

Would you look at that, Jase thinks, the arrogant
prick might have something going for himself.

*****************

Today 11:30pm

Your father was wrong: The Joker doesn’t have anything going for himself ; he never did and never will. The Prince of Crime brings only misery and suffering to those around him. No redeeming qualities, no remorse to show for his despicable actions.

J enters the house you own
about 40 miles away from Gotham, wanting to continue the fight from earlier
this morning. He has the key and once inside he’s being loud on purpose;
surprisingly, you didn’t show up to confront him yet.

“Y/N, where are you?!”

He stumbles on something in the darkness
and the glass rolls over, clattering when it hits the marble coffee table. J
turns on the lamp besides him and he sees you on the floor in your bath robe,
fast asleep with two empty wine bottles by you, the third one unopened. There
are pictures with you and Nate scattered all around your body and your
boyfriend is not pleased to notice that you ripped a few photos that you two
have together. He shivers, getting goose bumps: it’s very cold inside because
you got drunk and cried yourself to sleep before closing the sliding door
leading to the patio.

The Joker kneels by you, touching
your fingers: you’re frozen and don’t even know it. He doesn’t really want to, but he lifts you up, planning to take you to one of the bedrooms
upstairs when the black TV screen with only one red word in the middle: “Replay?” gets his attention.

What were you watching?

The remote is on the couch and he
takes a sit, still holding you in his arms and presses “play”.

“Me and my lovely wife took refuge
under this table,” Nate shows up on the big screen with a very young bride by
his side.

“So many people, we need a break,”
you sneaker and adjust your white veil. Nate is holding the camera,
pecking your temple as soon as you’re done.

The Joker glares at the TV with his
mouth opened: he had no idea you had this in your possession.

“This is for our future children,”
the groom winks and you elbow him. “They need to see how beautiful their mom is
on her wedding day. I mean, look at her: have you ever seen a more gorgeous creature?”

You blush and turn his face towards
you, softly kissing him:

“You always say the sweetest stuff…”

“And I mean it,” he kisses you one
more time. “I loved your mother since I was 7: I pulled on her ponytail and she
hit me in the face with her lunch box. Perfect display of affection, right
honey?”
“ Yes,” you laugh, being so happy you can’t stay still.

“This is the perfect opportunity for
me to have your mom promise something to me. If I have it on camera, she can’t
take it back.”

You look at him, wondering what he’s
playing at. The groom becomes serious:

“Y/N, I want you to promise me you’ll
never take your ring off.”
“I don’t plan to,” you interrupt but Nate continues.

“I want you to promise me anyway. You
know why?”
You nod a no, nervously tracing his
tie.

“Because I’m lucky I got an angel to
marry me and the world needs to see she’s mine.”

You gasp, your eyes getting teary.

“You say such sweet things…” it’s all
you can mumble, emotional at his confession.

“I mean every single one, but you still
have to promise.”

“I promise,” you sniffle and he
kisses you again.

“Awesome,” your husband smiles. “Now
we can live until we’re 85 like we planned and then we can take our relationship
to the next level.”

“You’re so funny,” you laugh again,
wiping your eyes.

“Where are those kids?” you father’s
voice is heard in the background and you shush each other.

“I hope he burns in hell,” you search
for his lips in the darkness and kiss him, believing it’s Nate. You taste like
wine and he savors the flavor.

“He already is and has been for a
long time…” the response makes you snuggle to his chest.

“That’s good…”

“U-hum,” J pecks your forehead and you
relax, falling asleep.

*****************

“What are you doing here?!” J hears
and scoots over towards you while you back out, having such a migraine from the
hangover. You barely opened your eyes and him being there makes you mad.

“Don’t do that to our pictures; it’s
rude,” he furrows his inexistent eyebrows and places the photos on your pillow.
He spent the morning scotch taping the images you torn apart last night.

“You took my ring,” your voice breaks
and he takes your hand while you punch his shoulder, wanting to elude
his grasp. “Go away! I hate you!”

“Stop it!!” The Joker threatens and
slides the wedding ring on your finger.

You stare at it, stunned.

“M-my ring… You found it?!”

“I didn’t. I had it the whole
time. I tossed one of my rings off the balcony, not yours,” he admits, not liking
the vulnerability of his actions. “You’re
my woman, nobody else’s,” the unexpected disclosure makes you get on your elbow,
straining to focus since the terrible headache makes everything spin. “How can
I compete with a dead guy, hm?”

It’s so weird and unsettling to hear
that coming from him, almost nerve wrecking.

A broken King with a broken Queen.

And nothing to hold the pieces together.

You slide towards him, hesitant.

“After…after my husband died, it took
three years for me to go on a date. Things progressively improved a bit, but
not too much. Before Nate passed, he was the only man in my life,” and you
stop, uncomfortable sharing such intimate details. But you want The Joker to
know:

“Every time I kissed someone, it felt
like cheating. I only had 4 boyfriends in the last 10 years and every time I
slept with them, I felt so guilty afterwards. I can’t explain that dreadful
feeling, but it was horrible,” you study his reaction but there’s none. The
blue eyes got darker though. “The point is, baby…” and his heart beats faster
when you call him that,”… it doesn’t feel like cheating when I’m with you. I don’t
feel guilty after we have sex. Do you know how good it is to be able to enjoy my
boyfriend without that burden?… I only…”

You don’t get to finish because J
cuts you off:

“Sooo, basically what you’re trying
to say is that I’m a stud and a very satisfying lover.”

“?????…”

“Jesus, Princess, you don’t have to
go through so many loops and chew my ears out with fancy talk just to say you
want to have more sex; it’s obvious,” the smug grin returns on his face. “I get
it: you were deprived of fun stuff for a long time and then I showed up, willing
to take on the challenge. But you know, for having a handful of boyfriends, you
sure seem experienced enough. Which arises the question: are you lying to me?”
and he rambles on and on until you smile, aware of his strategy.

He has more wisdom and self-praise coming
your way and doesn’t give up until you laugh with all your heart listening to
such aberrations. At one point you find yourself in his arms, smitten with all
that nonsense that keeps on coming out of his mouth.

I wrote something else!! I feel alive again. I thought I’d share it on here but it’s posted on my ao3

Grantaire was little more than a myth to Enjolras. Almost all of his friends knew him.

Bahorel met him during a bar fight; Jehan met him at a poetry reading; Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta had been friends with him since high school; and Feuilly worked at a candle store with him for a while.

The point is, Grantaire had started to intrude on Enjolras’ life a long time ago, and he was constantly hearing stories of his escapades (punching a cop in the face for harassing Jehan and then actually escaping the police, accidentally acquiring a sugar daddy and using his money to pay for pole-dancing lessons, living in a random frat house for two weeks before anyone realized).

It didn’t exactly paint a portrait of what to expect when Enjolras first meets him. To Enjolras, although he’s erratic, Grantaire seems to be a person worth being friends with, if the way Jehan’s eyes like up when they speak of him is anything to go by.

Bahorel’s shouting them all drinks at the Corinth because he finally gave up on law and decided to pursue his dreams of being a chef, and when Enjolras hears that Grantaire will be there he decides to finally sate his curiosity.

There’s a large uproar, mainly Bahorel’s booming voice, when Enjolras and Combeferre walk in, and Enjolras gives his friends a polite smile. There’s people he doesn’t know - a girl with dark hair and hungry eyes, a man wearing inappropriately-fashionable clothes and a coldly happy expression, and another man, drinking from a bottle and talking with Feuilly, his cheeks and ears red from the warmth of the bar, his black hair curly.

“That must be Grantaire,” Combeferre points out mildly as they near their friends.

Sev stomped into his seventh year NEWT class, already in a foul mood. He was always bad-tempered, but today was particularly worse. Horace had kept him up half the night drinking and grading, and he’d had to suffer through three choruses of the Ballad of Odo the Hero before they’d finished the NEWT-level theory exams. He threw the roll of parchment onto his desk and stalked across the front of the room. The room immediately silenced.

“Not one of you,” he seethed, “not one of you could name me all thirty-six uses of moonstone powder. Though we had spent the entire term using every. Single. One. Of them.” He loomed over a particularly noxious Gryffindor. “And some of you…could not even name me the alchemist who discovered twelve uses of dragon’s blood. And one of you misspelled his name.” He leaned in. The Gryffindor, a sandy-haired bespeckled pillock who had dogged Black’s footsteps those short three years ago, scowled back. This class had been fourth years when he was a seventh year. Sev’s sneer thickened.

There was a single snicker from the back of the Slytherin side: Lucie Rosier, auburn hair, her brother had asked him to look after her before he had been killed by aurors. He ignored it.

He turned abruptly and stalked to the center of the classroom. “Can any of you explain to me,” he hissed, “why these test scores were so abysmal? Can any of you explain to me why you have failed in basic recitation of the facts?” He flung out his hands. “It’s not as if we were asking you to use logic and critical thinking, no, we don’t expect that from students at your level. A simple regurgitation of the facts would have sufficed. But none of you managed even that.”

He made eye contact with a plump ginger, another Gryffindor. He remembered her: she had spread a rumor he had forced his girlfriend to get an abortion, his seventh year. Florence had never been pregnant and at that point he was just fucking Mulciber, anyway, Florence had figured out she had more fun watching anyway, and it would have been very difficult but not outside the realm of possibility to get him pregnant, but none of them were into that. His eyes narrowed. She looked down.

Sev swept up the roll of essays and brandished them at the silent class. Even Lucie Rosier was looking ashamed now. “So? Anyway of you? Care to explain why?”

Sev drew himself up. “You.” He pointed at the Pillock, who pushed up his glasses nervously. “Twenty points for speaking out of turn and you,” he snarled back at Ginger, “another ten points for disrespect.” The Gryffindors were stirred up, muttering to themselves, looking pissed off.

“That’s not fair!” Pillock exclaimed. “She said ‘sir’!”

Sev stared at him, and actually laughed. Bitch, he thought. Little Gryffindor fuckhead bitch. “Perhaps it has not been made clear to you,” he grinned, “but life isn’t fair.”

Even the Slytherins were looking creeped out. There was something demented in his smile.

“The classroom should be!” Pillock said righteously. “You’ve been taking off points for minor infractions since the start of term! You’ve been bullying us, just because–because–”

“Because what?” Sev said, lips tugging into a smirk. He almost could not believe his ears.

“Because you’re bitter!” the Gryffindor finally exploded. “Because you’re bitter you were Professor Snivellus back when you were a student, and you’re still Professor Snivellus now!”

Sev closed his eyes for a second and smiled coldly. He turned his head up to the ceiling, where traces of the manacles that once hung were still visibly, rusty nails, a splash of old blood, and he could almost hear the chain whipping. When he opened his eyes the students were all staring at him, Lucie Rosier looking apprehensive but almost eager, the anonymous Ravenclaws whispering to each other, and Pillock and Ginger were grinning at him, defiant and righteous. He opened his mouth slightly, an oddly sensual gesture, and with his thumb outlined his lips, staring at Pillock intrigued. He had inherited the gesture from Bellatrix Black, Lestrange now, she’d gotten married two months ago, how she would look at the blood traitor resistance, when they would helplessly spit their propaganda back at them. How cute: he knows how to speak. A shame it’s such filth. We’ll just have to cut out his tongue, then. His eyes narrowed, he whipped his wand across his wand: crack. The Pillock flinched, and he started speaking.

At first he began crooning, quiet, from the beginning of the room, walking across the stage that was his teacher’s podium and desk, and eventually he sauntered closer and closer to the Pillock, until he was speaking at a whisper a few inches away from his face, and Pillock was white and shaking and trying to slouch under the table, and it wasn’t until he saw the defiance fade into desperation that he stopped, pushed himself away from the desk and walked, back to the room, back to his podium. With a careless hand, he summoned the papers, wandless, wordless. He undid the leather cord that bound them and snapped the parchment straight. They distributed themselves, a handy charm Flitwick had taught him. Once done, he surveyed the classroom, face cold. Wide frightened eyes stared back at him. Pillock was still shaking, Ginger looked cowed. Lucie Rosier smiled at him, resplendent in her green robes. She looked so much like her brother.

“Miss Rosier,” he said, “can you tell me the twelve uses of dragon’s blood, and their applications in the subtle science and exact art of potion making?’

Minerva slammed her way into the staffroom. “Severus Alexander Snape!” she screeched. “What the hell did you do to Graeme Fawley?”

Sev looked over the edge of his newspaper. He raised a single black eyebrow at her. Horace harrumphed. “Now, Minerva, I’m certain we have to allow for a certain school boy exaggeration….” He waggled his eyebrows at her. Sev smirked. She had said the same thing about him, during the Werewolf Incident.

“He was having a full on mental breakdown when Jody Overcliff ran and brought me to the Hospital Wing, sobbing and shaking and unable to even breathe properly! What the hell went on?”

“NEWT level Potions are very stressful,” Horace said blandly. Severus’ smirk widened. Auriga Sinistra, the new Astronomy professor, who had only been six years ahead of him in school, nudged him. She wrote, on a piece of parchment, “Sluggy 1 McG 0.”

“This isn’t funny,” Minerva snapped. “We are in a war right now, our castle is under siege, and we need to ensure student morale is high, not drive them into hysterics!”

Sev sniggered.

“What is so funny about hysterics, Mr. Snape?” Minerva rapped out.

“Professor Snape,” he corrected her.

“I’ll call you Professor Snape when you start acting like one, young man! Pushing petty rivalries onto your students, oozing your emotions out between classes–you need to straighten up, you’re almost twenty-one now! You have to control yourself and stop bothering other–children. When you start acting like an adult, I’ll treat you like one, young man!”

Sev suddenly snarled, “Don’t call me that, you’re not my mother!’ He threw his newspaper aside and stormed out of the room. Minerva gaped after him.

Horace snickered, “You are acting a little like his mother there, Minerva. More his minder than I am.”

“I am not his mother,” Minerva snarled.

This time, Auriga spoke up. “Really? I remember his first year, he’d always come complaining to the prefects about how you’d be bothering him to wash his face, tuck in his shirt, hold his head up, look at people when he was talking to him…I don’t remember you bothering about other firsties like that, not even before the war started.”

Minerva sank down in the chair Sev had just vacated. “I am not his mother. We don’t even look alike.”

Horace countered, “Have you met Eileen?”

“Who?”

“Eileen Prince. Khadijah and Edward Prince’s girl, Bibi Burke’s sister. Geordie girl. She was captain of the Gobstones team when she was a student, Hufflepuff, worked as an Obliviator in the late 50s. She should’ve overlapped with your time in the Ministry, Minerva.”

Minerva frowned. “I don’t see how this is relevant.”

Horace leaned forward and patted her knee. “You two are quite similar, my dear. Shape of the face and temperament, though Ellie didn’t quite care so much for…decorum as you do. Telling our little snapling to hold his head high and keep himself clean, treat his body and his clothes with respect.”

“Didn’t you take him and James Potter’s wife to Diagon Alley, when Eileen was sick? In his first year,” Auriga was smirking openly. “And you bought him his cat, didn’t you? Malfoy had mentioned it, asked me about it when we handed down the prefect files.”

Minerva closed her eyes. “It was just a…meaningless fit of generosity, it doesn’t mean I care for the boy.”

Auriga said, “Quote ‘I’ll start treating you like an adult when you start acting like one, young man’ end quote. Emphasis my own.” Horace glanced at her. “What? I’m working on a paper.”

With dawning horror, Minerva said, “Merlin I am his mother.”

“Closest thing he has to one,” Horace said cheerfully.

Wordlessly Minerva got up and, dazed, made her way out of the door. Auriga returned to her marking: Sluggy 2 McG -1.

A/N: I decided to make the reader from district 7 because it was easier for me to write. I also started thinking about the scene from the new Star Wars where Poe and Finn are in the tie fighter when I wrote the ending😁

You had been running for so long it burned. A boy and girl from district two had been after you. Laughing and taunting you like this was some sort of twisted game. Well I guess it was.

You zig zagged through the forest and stumbled upon a hollowed out tree that you quickly hid inside of. You had the misfortune of being one of the tributes for district 7 and you knew that your district was not going to have a victor this year.

“Come on (y/n)!” One of the boys called “make this easier for yourself, come out. Well make it quick if you give yourself up now.” There was no way you were going to surrender like a coward. Your loved ones were watching you right now. You put on your best brave face and prepared yourself for the inevitable. “Found you,” the girl said in a sing song voice with a demented smile on her face. You close your eyes, as close to being at peace as you knew you could get.

Suddenly there is a scream.

You open your eyes and see a boy hitting her head in with a rock. The boy from two starts to runs in your direction. The blonde boy picks up a knife and throws it into his head.
The boy who had just saved you life walks over to where you are and offers you a hand.

“We have to go, someone will have heard that.” He says looking around.
“Come on we have to go” he says urgently trying to drag you onto your feet.

“Are you going to kill me?” You ask him, already suspecting the worst.

"What? No of course not!“ he says, seeming genuinly offended

“Why not?“

"Because… I don’t know, you seem different. There’s something about you, I feel like I can trust you. Now we need to go, now!"

You accept his hand and stand to your feet.
You walk over to the dead tributes bodies and check them for weapons and supplies. All they have is two knives and an almost empty water canteen, you put all of these items in your pack.

"What’s your name?” You ask him as you walk to his side.
“I’m Peeta, district 12. What about you?"

”(Y/n), district 7” you answer.

Right when you finish answering, you hear a group of people loudly tromping through the woods. You and Peeta make eye contact and nod before running away in the opposite direction as quickly as you can.

“Well it’s nice to meet you (y/n)” he says grinning at you.

“Nice to meet you too, Peeta” you say with a smile on your face as you both run away to safety.

Usually you were good at hiding your stress but ever since the professor assigned you a project where you’d have to share your findings with the entire class it’s become increasingly difficult to keep your anxiety a secret. Still no ones seemed to take too much notice to it, that is except for Peter.

“Hey [Y/N] can I come in?” Peter asked knocking on your bedroom door. You quickly jumped up and went to open it for him.

“Hi” you greeted shooting him a grin “what’s up?”.

“Just wanted to see how that project of yours was going” Peter said walking into your room casually, but suddenly he frowned “you ah… you kind of seemed stressed out about it. I’m worried about you is all”.

Your started to feel sick. The whole reason you started to hide your stress was that people use to make fun of you for worrying all the time. One of your biggest fears was that someone would see through your whole act and that was exactly what was happening.

You forced an almost demented smile.
“I’m fine Peter really”.

“No you’re not. You act like you are all the time [Y/N] but you aren’t. Come on you can talk to me”.

The moment you heard those chilling words freely flow from his twisted grin; Found you y/n..Just made it that more obvious that he treated this like kind of sick, horrifying version of hide and seek or something.

Immediately, your first thought was to fight- you didn’t know what he had planned to do, frankly you didn’t know if this could possibly be your last day on earth. Kicking out as hard as you could, your foot connected with his chest. You watched as he basically flew back, gripping his pained chest. “Fuck!” He grunted, gasping for air.

You scurried onto your feet and just as you were about to run out of the room, his hand roughly wrapped around your ankle; viciously yanking you down. You came crashing down, your side and chin slammed against the floor- knocking the wind out of you.

Soft gasps for air escaped you as your face contorted in pain, you held you side as you rolled onto your back only to have Jackson standing over you. With you between his legs, he menacingly stared down at you- that once playful glint in his emotionless eyes disappeared and turned into what you could only describe as nightmare fuel.

Jackson knelt on top of you, roughly gripping your tender jaw, “Fucking little bitch..” He snarled, cracking is neck as if he were trying to contain his rage.

SMACK!

His open hand connected with your cheek drawing out a pained whine. You shut your eyes for the second time and prayed that this would all turn out to be some kind of god-awful nightmare.

SMACK!

He landed another vicious blow on the opposite cheek, then relished in your distressed whines. “You’re such a selfish little bitch, y/n.” Suddenly, he grabbed a fistful of your hair as he began to stand, pulling you up to your knees, “LOOK AT ME NOW!”

You meekly whimpered as you finally opened your eyes, obeying his four-worded command. Peering up at him through your teary eyes, automatically being greeted with his demented smile. “P- Please don’t kill me..” You whimpered as tears fell from your eyes.

A deranged chuckle flowed out of him as he heard your whimpered plea. The older man clicked his tongue while shaking his head, he gently caressed the abused flesh on your face all while still holding a fistful of your hair. His expression looked semi-sympathetic, yet giggly all at one, “Oh no, no, no y/n..” He cooed, “I’m not going to kill you, sweetheart..”

You winced at his touch, and though he wasn’t being cruel now- you could only imagine the horrors that awaited for you, so you made a haphazard attempt to wiggle out of his strong grasp.

Shaking his head in disappointment, he licked his lips just before slamming you back down to the floor. You weakly grunted as the back of your head hit the icy tile and your vision became blurred. Tears streamed down the sides of your face as you tried your hardest to regain your sight, you sniffled, “Pl-Please stop..”

Jackson’s P.O.V.

Though his heart ached at seeing how utterly terrified you were, he became fueled by the pent up anger he hide away for so long. As you laid there before him, crying- begging for him to stop; he reminded himself of the fact that you chose Mark over him and that you’d always choose that son of a bitch instead of him unless he intervened.

Jackson then formed his hand into a fist, hitting you twice before you finally were out. He released you now limp body from his grip and stayed there for awhile, intently observing the bruises that formed on your cherubic face. “So pretty..” He uttered out, leaning down to wipe away the tears that littered your cheeks.

Pulling out his phone, he quickly checked the time- though it didn’t feel long, the little game of hide and seek you forced him to play took a bit longer than expected. “Huh.. almost 3 already..” Throwing his head back slightly, a soft sigh flowed out of him as his hands ran through his hair.

Peering back down at your fast-bruising, unconscious body; Jackson squatted down, lightly lifting your head as if he was about to examine the areas he hit but instead just admiring how pretty you looked covered in bruises- then he began thinking about how pretty you’d look hogtied and gagged. Though many would say it was wrong, especially after everything- after all the reason you were unconscious in the first place was because of him, he felt that torturous tightness in the front of his jeans, “That has to wait..” He practically scolded himself as he lifted you up in his arms.

He couldn’t help but to admire you as he walked back to his room. “She’s finally mine..” He cooed in utter disbelief while laying you down on his bed. Walking over to his dresser, he opened up one of his drawers and pulled out some black rope and tape.

Jackson walked back over to your unconscious body, flipping you onto your stomach and placing both hands behind your back- he tightly wound the rope around your wrists and forearms, then did the same to your ankles; all while making sure you wouldn’t be able to get loose.

Once he was done, he knelt down beside you- running his long fingers through your hair. As he opened his mouth to speak, he heard someone opening the front door. Panic set in the moment he heard Youngjae and Jaebum’s voices.

“Jackson!” Jae called out followed by the sound of front door shutting behind them.

Jackson turned back to your limp, bound body.Fuck, fuck, fuck..

He immediately ripped off a piece of tape, slapping it across your mouth- then picked you up and practically tossed you into his closet, making sure to lock it after.

“Uh yeah, hyung?” He replied innocently, his panic settling down- walking out of his room, making his way to the living room with his two friends.

“How are you feeling?” His hyung asked as he reclined back onto the couch. “Also, why is the house such a mess?”

“Oh um..” Jackson replied, rubbing the back of his head as he tried coming up with some sort of excuse; he didn’t even realize how much of a mess he made because of you, “Well Coco was really hyper earlier, so I was playing with her to tire her out. She’s asleep in your room now Youngjae.”

“Ahh she’s usually never that hyper..” Youngjae replied, a concern look on his face as he made his way into the hallway, “Where’s y/n?” He suddenly asked while turning back to face him, “Mark-Hyung said she should be home by now, and that when we come home to have her call him.”

“Y/n? She hasn’t come home yet.” He replied, combing his hair back.

“Wait..” Jae cut in, tilting his head in confusion at Jackson’s statement. “If she hasn’t come home yet then..” Standing from his seat on the couch, walking over to the kitchen counter, coming back with a black bag and a phone. “Aren’t these her’s?”

Youngjae ran over to their hyung, grabbing the phone and carefully examining it, “Yeah this is her’s, Mark-Hyung’s the one that put this star sticker on the back.” He replied, turning it over then pointing at the little white star that sat at the bottom corner of the phone.

Jackson silently cursed himself as he continued to stand at the end of the hallway. How could he be so stupid? Son of a bitch..

“Yah!” Jae shouted, “Where is she? You said she hadn’t come home yet?”

“Sorry, I had fallen asleep in my room- but I think I heard her talking on the phone with her sister or something..” Jackson replied in an apologetic tone, “I kind of forgot, I was just really tired..”

“We should call Mark.” Youngjae blurted out, paying no mind to Jackson’s excuse, “He’s going to be worried if we don’t.”

“Yeah I know.” Jae replied, pulling out his phone and automatically dialing up Mark, “I’ll go let him know.”

Youngjae nodded, “I’ll go over to y/n’s sister’s place and see if she’s there.” The younger man stated, grabbing his keys as both men made their way back to the front door.

“Aren’t you guys overreacting?” Jackson blurted out as he followed them to the door.

Jae shot an agitated look back at the younger man while shaking his head, “Y/n never leaves without her phone and bag, plus when if the last time she’d take off without leaving a note or something?”

Staying there completely silent, Jackson just nodded as watched his friends rush out the door. The moment they left, an unhinged little giggle flowed out of him, “Fuck they’re stupid.” He giggled, taking pride in the fact that they automatically believed his excuse.

He began walking back towards his room;God you were right beneath their noses and they didn’t even realize that. Hilarious.

As he walked into his room, he heard the wonderful sound of your muffled cries. He opened his closet door, peering down at your squirming body. “Let’s get you home before they come back, shall we babygirl?”

{A/N} I had such a hard time making this “imagine” length, I wanted to draw it out further! I hope ya like it my lovely anonymous reader! P.S. I’m still working on everyones requests and Play the Ace, I just thought I’d make that known. :)xo

Prompt: Can i request a joker imagine with this prompt? "You’re never really ever going to love me are you?“ “I’m nothing to you, always have been, always will be.”

Imagine the Joker standing outside of your cell at Belle Reve. You helped him on a dangerous heist- the usual Friday night for the two of you, but this time things went awry. When Batman showed up to ‘take out the trash,’ your beloved Mistah J left you to the wolves bats.

“You’re never really ever going to love me are you? I’m nothing to you, always have been, always will be,” you spit through the cold iron bars you’re clutching. This time, the harshness of tone is coming from you, and it couldn’t feel more satisfying.

Your hair is a mess and the bags under your eyes have been defined and darkened a bit more from the stress you’ve been under. Your hands are rough and covered in flakes from the faint rust encrusted on the bars you try to get out of daily.

He’s let you stay here for a few weeks now, enduring torture and electric shock therapy of all kinds as “routine, since you’re just whacked too far the fuck out anyway,” they tell you. You can’t help but be bitter at the thought of knowing he knows exactly what’s happening to you and still didn’t come to help you bust out. He’s sent you inside messages, saying he’ll “be there tonight,” but tonight after tonight came around, and he was nowhere to be seen.

His stare is haunting, and you can see the anger rising in his body as he balls one hand into a fist. He quickly releases it, stretching out his fingers and cracking his neck. You don’t give him time to calculate the sarcastic response you expect from him before you raise your voice. What did it matter now? You were just as safe behind these bars as you were in danger.

“You keep me toting along side of you, for what?! A distraction for you to get away when shit gets tough!”

You’re too angry to think about the fact that by now someone should’ve heard you, or even seen him.

“Remember the one and only time you told me you love me…” you roll your neck slightly, cocking your head back and to the side as your hair falls around your face with a demented, disappointed smile. You grip harder onto the bars, your knuckles turning white, “You love me, you love me, you love me.. Bullshit!”

His eyes stay locked on yours, and his silence already speaks volumes for what could possibly be in the cards for you if you ever did manage to break out of this hell hole on your own. You notice his eyes travel past you and he nods once. An abrupt large explosion on the other side of your cell causes you to lurch forward into the bars as you brace yourself amidst the now flying debris.

When the smoke clears enough so you can see in front of you, The Jokers gone.

You turn around hastily, throwing your arms at your sides. Fueled on rage again, your inhale to scream at the top of your lungs, but a pair of hands catch your shoulders tightly and a rough kiss is planted onto your lipstick-less lips. You shake your head once your lips part from each others and open your {E/C} eyes. There is he is, staring back at you with a condescending red grin.

“Such a pain in the ass, {Y/N}, I did not miss that..” he growls as he grabs your hand and starts running, dragging you behind him through the rubble and out of the cell. You can’t help but roll your eyes and let a smirk slide across your features as you trail behind him out of the prison.

“My name is Barry Allen. And I am the fastest bicycle courier alive. When I was a child I saw my mother get hit in the head by a newspaper thrown by an evil paperboy. My father who was suppose to pick up the paper at the store was blamed for always forgetting to pick it up which forced us to get a subscription to that paper, the paperboy threw it at our heads everyday of lives for a month. Then the impossible happened. I won a biking race and got a job at the local delivery shop, I use this as an opportunity to make up for all the evil other delivery men have caused. I call myself the Flash, I wish the people at work call me that too.”

Barry Allen adjusted the mirrors built into his cyclocross bike and looked down the surprisingly empty bike lane. He squinted his eyes and stared down the street towards the suburbs. He had to deliver a package to 1940 Lampert street in less than eleven minutes. Barry chuckled confidently unfazed by the short time period; the light turned green and he started to speed down the bike lane passing some of the slower cars and seniors citizens. Usually he would be helping Wally train and handle his bike better, but this delivery seemed to important. Barry rode into the suburbs when he suddenly heard the twang of a little bell. Sweat rolled down Barry’s forehead and onto his red cycling jersey as he turned around to the source of the bell. Behind him was a man in a full body yellow jumpsuit and a yellow ski mask with red highlights, he sat on top of a mustard yellow racing bike decked out with red wheels.

Zoom let out a menacing chuckle. “Yes it is I Barry, the man who was once a simple paperboy who threw the news at people head, but since you defeated me in that bicycle race I have sworn to vengeance and ruining your life and now I have the tool to do that,” Zoom monologued with a demented smile as he pulled out a box that looked exactly like Barry’s box. “You see this box is a perfect replica of your box and it has the wrong package inside it, I plan to throw it through the window of the home you are going to thus destroying your credibility!”

“No I would never let you!” Barry shouted strongly.

“Well then you’ll have to get there before me,” Zoom declared as he rode past Barry at top speed.

Barry quickly turned around and slammed his feet down on the peddles and sped after Zoom with a look of determination. He gracefully hugged the sharp turns of the sidewalk keeping track of what little time he had left. Zoom cackled as he drove forward leaving Barry in the dust. Suddenly both of them heard the panting of a man running behind them. They turned their heads and saw a man with black hair and wearing a neon white and yellow safety vest running towards them.

“August what are you doing?” Barry asked to his former bike riding partner surprised.

“I’m doing what you never could’ve done Barry, I’m gonna finish this for good, I’ll steal Zoom’s bike!” August shouted as he ran past Barry panting slightly. “While you were wasting your speed and energy pedalling I was laying in wait conserving my energy for this moment.”

“You fool you think you can-,” Before Zoom could finish August grabbed the back of his bike and made Zoom fly off his bike and hit the pavement. “Owww I should’ve worn a helmet,” He remarked with a groan.

“Yes I finally have it! I’ve stopped the madness,” August cried proudly as he got on Zoom’s bike. “And now I need to take your place Barry as the best bicycle courier in this city, someone needs to make up for your failures.”

“Why August?” Barry asked shocked.

“Because my brother’s package was late and you were the delivery man,” August told him with a glare.

“Jay I saw your young friends bashing into each other with bicycles again,” She remarked while shaking her head. “I’m glad you got out of that-” Joan started to say until she saw Jay pull his old silver and rusted red dutch roadster with a basket on it, out of the garage. “Jay!”

“What?” He asked confused.

“You promised no more of this bicycle shenanigans after that manic calling himself the Rival!” She yelled annoyed.

“First of all what happened to Edward wasn’t my fault, I told him he couldn’t control his bike with that engine on it, I told him that he would fall into that river, and what happened he lost control of the bike and fell in the river, the only thing I could be blamed for winning that race against him,” Jay explained to her with a pout. “And secondly I’m just going out for milk.”

“You better be back in ten minutes,” Joan ordered sternly.

Jay chuckled happily. “Yes ma’am,” He told her as he rode off with a smile.

A five point star lay at the crest of his collarbone, inked with careful, needlepoint precision from tail to tip. The guardsmen had seen dozens of them, carried by inmates at this rotting old Gridanian dungeon of a prison as a sign of status; a high-ranking thief among the Shroud’s scattered bandit-gangs.

They’d never exactly seen one inked so well as the one on this blonde, sun-simmered miqo’te’s skin. It didn’t fit. Frankly, neither did he - that’s why he’d found himself, for the third time in a week, with a black eye, a ripped-off shirt, with his arms chained behind him and his indignant, glowering expression face-to-face with the prison’s Warden, a hefty, scar-tattered elezen man with one eye.

The warden looked like he’d lost more fights than most men had ever been in; like he carried more scar tissue than regular tissue. He carried himself with a hard-nosed dignity, his jaw rigid as rock and his expression a permanent scowl; his uniform, unimpressive silks of black adorned with only a single golden badge at the chest to indicate his position, fit molded to his body as if they’d been tailored to barely fit his considerable, muscular bulk within. Ragged gray hair hung like a lion’s mane along his head, across his jaw and to his chin. He didn’t wear an eyepatch over the lost eye - the socket had simply been battered shut, collapsed by whatever crushing blow he’d taken to the face.

Most noticeable of all, though, he was out of place. Just as out of place as the cocky, black-eyed Seeker sat upon the rickety stool on the other side of the warden’s desk. A man bearing this many scars didn’t belong here. He belonged on the field of war, dying under the thrust of a Garlean’s blade or some such. He didn’t belong here, staring begrudgingly at troublesome convicts.

“Three times,” a gruff voice finally quaked from the elezen’s throat, like the tremble of an earthquake through a rocky canyon. “Three times.” The words hung in the rather unremarkable chamber, gleaming fireflies pulsating bright with echoes briefly before glinting away again. Inked arms, a bloodied nose, scar-scattered skin and an indignant glare of muted, almost petulantly childish rage on his expression, the prisoner held his chin aloft and took in the increasingly-familiar surroundings - a great oak cabinet behind a crumbling wooden desk, stacks of yellowed, moldering documents beneath oddly-shaped rocks, the most rudimentary sort of paperweights. A musk of rotten food and feeding fungus and vibrant moss choked the air, with sunlight peering through only a single haphazard hole at ceiling-height.

Shifting in his creaking old wooden chair, the elezen’s gray eyes ran along the scrawlings on the paper cockeyed in front of him, two young men in heavy blackened armor flanking the door. The prisoner’s eyes scanned the only thing worth looking at in this hole of an office - lofted a good eight feet into the air, trophies and medal cases gathered dust atop the oak cabinet, with one particularly peculiar piece standing out - a lockbox. Jeweled and colored far too ostentatious for the man at the desk, its gilded lock gleamed as a few beams of sun bounced through the prison-barred hole above the desk, before dusky clouds swallowed the glow as quickly as it had come.

“A’kaan– it just says A’kaan,” the elezen grumbled, fists tightened, laid out across the table. “Don’t you bloody breeders have last names?”

‘A’kaan’ just wriggled angrily, the snarl in his expression silent but palpable.

“Burn your tongue on some sandworm meat?” the elezen asked, his eye twitching.

Again, A’kaan just stared, defiant.

“I don’t make speeches, breeder,” he huffed, the chair squealed beneath the broad-shouldered man’s weight. “Wouldn’t care how many times a week you swung fists with the other animals down in the hole, but when you swing on my men three times in a week, things get ugly for you, quick.”

“Ugly as you?” A’kaan broke his silence sharp, like the knife’s slice across supple flesh. The elezen tried to muster a smile, though with the dozens of jagged scars cut across his face, it looked more demented than anything.

“I’ve cleaned scum worth far more than you from the heel of my boot, breeder,” the old man grumbled. “Thieves, killers, miscreants, stuffed like rats into this sinking ship - and I’m at the helm. Don’t think I’m above drowning every last one of you stains of pelican-shite if you so much as look sideways at me.”

“I’ve been here three times in a week, and all you’ve done is talk,” A’kaan bit back, drawing his gaze upward - towards a dusty display case carrying an array of tarnished Wood Wailer medals. “What’d you do to earn those, junior scout-ranger? Build the best campfire? Sell the most pistachio bread for the fundraiser?” The towering elezen’s response came slow at first - another stewing, demented grin.

“Valor, aptitude, bravery,” he grimaced.

“Which one of those got you the job here?” A’kaan taunted. “Hiding behind a desk. Like a coward.”

The elezen chuckled. With a nod, one of the guardsmen swaggered up behind the miqo’te, grinning sadistically; with a quick flick of the keys at his wrist, the chains tumbled free of A’kaan’s hands. Eyes wide and gaze flicked towards the warden, he notices the barrel-chested brute advancing on him with a slow, deliberate stride.

“What? Do you want a hug?” A’kaan sniped, shooting up from the stool with a bounce in his step.

“I thought I’d give you a fighting chance,” the warden smiled that demented smile, knuckles crackling with a twist of each wrist.

“I hope you hit harder than those two half-witted goosenecks,” A’kaan glanced over his shoulder. The swoosh of wind cut across his ears and he acted on honed instinct, dodging at the most fortuitous second; the warden’s fists, like chiseled granite boulders, swung one-two at the swiftly-eluding Seeker.

The miqo’te, of course, had no interest in keeping this fight on its feet - against a tower of meat and muscle like this, he had no real choice. A’kaan charged, and while he clearly didn’t match the strength of the warden, he was not but a head or two shorter, and lanky arms and strong legs he wrapped himself around the monolithic mountain-man’s chest and pushed.

The scuffle didn’t last. Bodies twined together, it took one good shove and a fist like a hammer against the scoundrel Seeker’s cheek. Lights bloomed explosive across his eyes while the stunning strike shuddered along his spine, twisting his neck and sending him, dazed, clattering to the floor. He gasped for breath, the blow having momentarily shocked the air from his lungs, and shocked the ‘oh, fuck, i need to breathe’ sense from his rattled brain long enough for him not to notice that, fuck, he needed to breathe.

When the ringing stopped at the grogginess came back, all he could feel were two arms dragging his leaden weight of a body along rough cobblestones, and the echo of a rumbling laugh shaking the walls of the darkened prison.

“In the hole, scumbag,” one of the two guards hoisting him through the dark grunted. In unison, they tossed A’kaan’s weight into the bleak darkness of solitary isolation - no lights, no windows; a straw cot to lay on, gruel to eat. No one to speak to, no one to listen to except the skittering rats.

Grumbling miserably in the darkness, A’kaan dragged his ragged body along the musty stone, slumping half-dead atop the muck-stained pillow pushed into the corner of the cell, the loud, ironwrought clatter of a gate slamming shut barely louder than the hum of pain still whirring in his ears.

A glint of torchlight flicked across his face while he curled fetal against the blackened corner, and the astute eye could see just the most fleeting of expressions chasing across his face.

Embarrassment? Anger? Frustration? Fear?

Nope. A smirk.

His shaking hand snuck into the pocket of his tattered white slops, and his fingers fondled the prize secreted away during the brief meeting of boisterous bodies and bruised faces.

A key. A single, golden key, attached to a small copper wire. Bright, bejeweled; far too ostentatious for a man like that.

Braden had gotten himself into this mess when he’d heard tell of an impossible job. Nothing’s impossible, and proving that was almost worth more than the boatloads of gil he’d make once he finished this. Lots of brave idiots had gotten themselves locked in prisons for life trying to break in to prison - but the Seeker knew a much easier way to get his paws on the warden’s key - which his shady employer had promised him, ‘only one key exists, and he keeps it on himself, at all times.’

Manufacture a fake identity, get himself caught for a petty crime, and make some noise on the inside. And it had worked wonderfully.

Bray knew the score now. When the warden dressed down for bed, he’d notice the key missing. That gave the smirking scoundrel a few minutes to pry himself free of solitary confinement, sneak through the twisting halls into the warden’s office, snatch the lockbox’s contents, start a prison riot, and slip out in the chaos.

Fandom: Teen WolfPairing: N/AWarning: Mentions of hallucinations and PTSDWriter: thatgirlwholikestowritestories​Summary/Request: Partly based on (X): After a run in with the Nogitsune you suffer some side effects…

Ok,what if their lover sacrificing themselves for the boys in the game?

Since you said ‘in the game’ I’m assuming you mean during their routes, so just to be safe: SM2 SPOILERS AHEAD!!

James: Hand outstretched to where you had vanished to, James could see his vision begin to lose focus. His hands were trembling and he could feel the beginnings of hot tears welling up in his eyes. You were gone, placed back in the human world you knew without any knowledge of ever meeting him or his brothers and he would have to live with all your shared memories for the rest of his life.

Behind him, James could hear the victorious chuckle of the angel who had sent you back. His hands twitched, preparing to cast some magic that would destroy the angel even if it was the last thing he could ever do.

Erik: It was as if all time had frozen when you jumped out in front of him, screaming for Oribel to stop in her rampage as she took control over the demon king’s corpse. Erik hadn’t even had the time to warn you that she was getting ready for another attack, sword at the ready. It was too late by the time he was able to find his voice and by then, only a pained scream of your name could leave his lips.

Erik caught you as you fell to the floor, careful not to agitate the blade piercing through your chest. He knew there was no way to save you now, but even so, he didn’t want your last moments to be painful.

Sam: He saw you fall before he even heard you scream, his ears catching up to him a few seconds too late to realize. You’d pushed him out of the way of a blow he hadn’t expected, a stupid move he thought would surely get you injured. What he didn’t expect to see was Malix’s sword punctured straight through your middle, the devil slowly twisting the weapon in his fist with a demented smile on his face as he dealt you more damage.

The outrage in Sam’s yell was something he could feel in his bones as he ran in for another attack. He tried not to look at you as he finished the battle with Malix, knowing full well what he’d see would not be you smiling back at him.

Matthew: Despite the control his mother had over him, Matthew could feel the tears leaking from his eyes as he stared at your corpse in his hands. He could feel his fists tighten around you against his will, squeezing every last ounce of what could have been your life out of your body and he couldn’t stop. Around him, the blood of all his loved ones spilled over onto the floor and stained his blue marked skin with their crimson.

You had walked willingly into his arms, knowing full well the control his own mother had over him would surely end up killing you. Matthew wanted to scream at you to run away, but it was either him or you. You’d made your choice.

Damien: The demon king had you by the throat, his clawed hands squeezing until your neck was practically crushed under his strength. All Damien could do was watch helplessly from the floor below, his body beaten and battered from a battle you should have never been a part of. He flinched, hot and angry tears falling from his eyes when he heard you take one last gargling breath before your life slipped away.

Trade your life for his? Damien knew it was all a joke; the demon king would kill you, then he would stop at nothing to kill him next. That is, if Damien couldn’t kill his father first.

It had finally happened, the fractures in Annest’s mind splintered and shattered leaving behind the monster she had always feared she’d become. The whispers of the skulls telling her of the only true way to never lose another or to be tossed aside again…

It was a Monday morning when I heard my mom yelling and banging on my door. I had forgotten about my consultation and honestly I didn’t feel like going to that stupid place anyways.
It’s been two months since Susan broke up with me, since that day I haven’t done anything but smoke, get drunk, go out and party and hang out with the McCall pack. I am not going to be a hypocrite and say that I treated her like a I queen. Because I didn’t. But I changed my player ways to be with just one girl and I also wasn’t a monster towards her. I spoiled her and did everything I could to be the best boyfriend she had. Just so she could break up with me with the excuse that she had met someone else. Was I not enough?
Scott, Stiles and Liam were really trying to help me. But I’d much rather them leaving me alone so I could deal with my pain my own way. She’s already in a new relationship and I’m still getting drunk to forget all the good times we had. My mom thinks I’m depressed so she scheduled an appointment with a therapist her friend told her about. The point was that I didn’t need a damn therapist telling me what’s wrong with me. I know what’s wrong. That damn bitch used me and broke my heart. “Brett get up. You’re already late, I called and told them that you were on your way” my mom shouted almost breaking the door.
I growled and threw my pillow across the room getting up and heading to the shower. I need to get ready as fast as possible because if I know my mom she’s going to be furious if I take even a second later than I need to.
My head was killing me, but I pushed through the pain and took a very cold shower so I could wake up and look a little more presentable from my hungover. I came out of the shower and dried my messy sand blonde hair with a towel while I looked through my underwear drawer for a clean boxer.
I went down stairs fixing my hair at the same time. My simple black jeans, tank top and jeans shirt made me feel fresh since it was the middle of July and the summer in beacon hills could kill just about anyone that chose to wear more clothes than needed.
My mom was waiting for me with one of the worse faces I have ever seen her make. She didn’t say a word and neither did I. I mean I am 22 years old and I could very well drive myself to this stupid clinic but my mother wanted to make sure I was actually going to go to this damn appointment. The car ride was silent and so was the walk up to the reception of the place.
It was actually a very cool place. The walls had drawings and paintings all over them, some had writings and some had signatures. Patients that decided to give the place a little life. “Mrs. Talbot, Dr. (Y/L/N) is waiting for your son, she is available for the whole morning just like you asked for, now Cody can just walk in the first door to your left and make himself comfortable, the Dr will be with him very soon” my head shot back from all the arts in the walls when a very good looking older woman talked to my mom. I just nodded and made my way to the first door. “Now, what kind of insurance you have?” I heard the woman say before I closed the door behind me.
The room was painted in deep red, there was a big black wood desk with a bunch of paper work and a tag that said “Dr. (Y/N) (Y/L/N)”. Nice name. There was also a big leather couch and a sit next to it. In the right Conner there was a mini bar and some cups and behind all of that there was a big TV. I did as the woman told me and made myself comfortable by laying down on the couch and closing my eyes. My head was still killing me since my lovely mother didn’t give me any time to take some aspirin before I left the house…
—————————————————
It’s been 10 minutes since I walked in the room, the doctor is still not here and I’m starting to get really annoying with all this wait. If she’s an old woman that doesn’t do anything with my problems I will never come here again. 3 soft knocks on the door and I hear a soft voice asking “Mr. Talbot. May I come in?” I quickly shouted a yes and the door opened slowly revealing a young beautiful woman, when I say beautiful I mean fucking drop dead gorgeous. She was short. No more than 5 feet 2. Long dark hair stopping at her waist, big brown eyes, amazing white smile and high cheek bones with a single dimple on her left cheek. My eyes rolled down her body and I almost felt my heart skip a beat. She had medium round boobs and from what I could see through her bottom down shirt they were very perky, flat stomach and a round ass. Her legs were hidden by the black skinny jeans she wore but I could tell they were toned and big and she wore white nike sneakers. She had amazing curves and I was stoned but how beautiful her smile was. She couldn’t be more than 20 years old. “Mr. talbot are you okay?” She asked and I snapped back blushing a little “oh I’m sorry. I just wasn’t expecting someone so young and good looking to be hearing my problems” I said quickly. Did I really just fucking said that? She laughed a little and her laugh was adorable. She smiled at me afterwards and walked to the table to get a notebook and a pen sitting down on the chair next to the couch I was laying down afterwards. “Okay, I know this is going to be a little weird for you. But I want you to know that nothing you tell me it’s going to come out of this room, you can trust me completely with everything” she said moving her lips slowly and smiling afterwards, I smiled back. For some reason I felt comfortable around her presence “I don’t know. I’m not really into talking about my feelings you know?” I said looking at the sealing. “I understand. How about if you tell me something about you. I’ll tell you something about me” she said moving the chair slightly and crossing her legs which made me stare at them for a short while. “Hm okay, the reason I’ve been like this it’s because my girlfriend broke up with me, and I was not a bad boyfriend” I said defensively “I’m sure you weren’t. Well I’m not young. I’m 22 years old” she said and I smiled at her “me too” “ I know” she said winking at me and holding up the notebook with some notes on it and I blushed. Why was I blushing? “For some reason I think it’s deeper than that though. I mean you can have a broken heart but you don’t seem to be the guy that would let someone see that you’re broken. Is there anything else happening that made you feel rebellious?” The way she said rebellious with her big lips made my dick wake up. She was completely messing with my head. And she wasn’t doing much “my dad wants me to go live with him, but how can I leave my mom and little sister? They need a man in the house” I said that so fast I couldn’t believe myself. I don’t know how she’s making me tell her all of this and for some reason I can’t pick up her emotion sent. Nothing. It was almost like my werewolf powers weren’t working although I could still hear her heartbeat. Which was steady. I wasn’t affecting her like she was affecting me. “I see, was your father abusive?” She said moving her hair behind her ear. “No he was a great guy. Him and my mom just didn’t work out” I shrugged and she nodded. “Now tell me something about you” I demented and she smiled “okay, hm I’m not American, I moved here from Brazil when I was 13” she said and I smirked. That explains the body and the little accent she has…
After one hour of telling her my problems and getting to know her a little better my time with her was up. And I didn’t want to leave. I was looking forward to my next appointment with her and after she told me to go make an appointment for three days from now I couldn’t be more anxious for Thursday.

There’s a second and maybe third part!!! I just wanted to see if anyone would read my imagines! Thank you if you read it! It means a lot since this is my first one. And I’m accepting requests with any guy in teen wolf. Smut and clean :) byee - Mari :)

Chapters:

There was something about today that was off. You’d been out scavenging, attempting to scope out areas that The Kingdom hadn’t been to yet. One of the scouts, Daniel, was sent to go with you by your brother, Ezekiel, but you refused the help, being that you’d been fine on your own on your other few trips.

( @poppo911​ asked for #6 and #11 from this lovely prompt post. This is #11 - “You’re going to make it. Just stay awake.” Im not sorry it’s angst central, and this ended up much longer than originally planned…)

The sound of the metal against her throat still rang in his ears. The stench of blood was thick in the air, and the pooling darkness around her made him nauseous. The more he stared, the more he shouted, the more the panic in his voice rose.

She was going quiet.She was slipping away.She was going to die.

“Lieutenant!”

He watched the slow rise and fall of her chest, the pained grimace on her face, the quickly paling skin, and the ever widening pool of blood. That damn doctor was saying something else - taunting him, pushing him.

“Lieutenant, hang in there! Can you hear my voice?!

In his head, the list of ingredients he had had Breda collect came flooding back, the theory easy and circle already provided. He could live with whatever the Truth took in exchange for his sin, whatever price he was made to pay. He could not live without her.

“You bastards! Lieutenant, answer me!”

The men holding him were too strong, and his shoulders screamed indignantly as he battled against them to get to her. She had never failed him; he could not let her down now. She was growing weaker as he watched, that repulsive doctor speaking once more.

“Who do we transmute? Family? A friend? A lover?”

She was all of that, she was everything. Where could he possibly start in what she meant to him?

Her voice was so tiny, so weak, so un-Riza like that it startled him, and he wanted to weep as she spoke. He had ordered her not to die, selfishly, greedily, and even now she was clinging to that. He had burdened her with this loyalty, and again with this pain. He had put her in this whole fucked up situation, as Bradley’s assistant, as his weak point, as his bodyguard, as his conscience.

“Your precious woman is dying.”

The rage that filled him was unspeakable, and he lunged forward as the doctor’s foot made contact with her, restrained once again. How dare he touch her. The urge to incinerate the man where he stood was uncontrollable, and that fucking demented smile of his made his skin crawl.

“So what is the choice you will make? Maybe she’s dead.”

The Philosopher’s Stone glinted in the dim light as he held it up, the blood red contents calling to him. He could save her. He had to save her. A world without her was a pointless one; what was the point of rising to Fuhrer if he could not even protect her? And for one awful moment, where she didn’t move, didn’t make a sound, he was convinced she was gone, and everything was coming crashing down about him. Riza Hawkeye could not be dead.

But then her eyes met his, the pain on her face unwatchable, and that stare of hers chilled him to the bone. It wasn’t even a plead or a beg - it was an order. Even now, on death’s doorstep, she was giving him an order. And he heard it, loud and clear. They had years of glances and silent gestures, a language all of their own, and it was making her order clear as day.

Don’t you dare, Roy.

Damn her, in all her stubborn, indignant nature. She was asking him to keep his promise in impossible circumstances. He had never promised to walk the moral path if she was not there to guide him - that had never been part of their deal. He stared back helplessly, feeling the sweat drip from his forehead, mixing with the salty tears that stung at the corner of his eyes. No. He refused to accept this. Refused to accept that she would insist on this. He had to accept the offer, had to complete the transmutation, had to save her.

Her eyes moved, shifting upwards, and he froze. A plan?She had a plan? She was asking for his trust, for his belief in her, to follow her. That meant forsaking her. An impossible choice, yet he knew truly he did not have one. His head hung, feeling the nausea and guilt wash over him as he spoke. To hell whether she had a plan; this was betrayal, of the very worst kind, and it would stay with him forever.

“I won’t do human transmutation.”

The next few moments were a blur of action, yet time seemed to move so slowly. It felt like hours before he was able to free himself of the binds of the men holding him, rage and adrenaline filling him as he lunged forward, incinerating the man that stood before him, his eyes fixed on her unmoving body; he had no time for this, she had no time for this.

“Out of my fucking way!”

The sight of her made his stomach turn. She was quiet, far too quiet, sheet white, her delicate frame soaked in blood. He cradled in his arms in seconds; she had never felt so small. The warmth of her blood on his hands, quickly starting to soak his gloves, contrasted so sharply with her cold skin, and the roar in his ears was growing louder as her eyes remained shut, her face unmoving. Fuck.“Open your eyes, Lieutenant!”

Not even a flinch from her, and had it not been for the slow rise and fall of her chest, he would have believed she was gone. She was slipping through his fingers with every passing second. Letting her go for May was almost impossible, and he watched every flinch, every tiny movement, like a hawk as the young girl drew her transmutation circle, the second ticking away. This had better work. Not that he had any other choice. It wasn’t until she grimaced in pain that he let out a breath he’d been unaware he was holding, gathering her back up in his arms tightly, clinging to her.

“I’m sorry…”

Sorry didn’t even begin to cover it. This was his fault, he had dragged her into all of this, with his naive dreams and arrogant grab for power. His lips found her ear, whispering frantic apologies over and over. Apologies for leading her here, for listening to her, for forsaking her, for not being able to heal her himself - he was unsure himself just how many he gave her. You’re going to be okay. You’re going to make it, just stay awake. Please, Riza.

”Don’t talk, just rest.”

And when her eyes slowly flickered open, unfocused as they met his own, relief flooded through him. He’d never quite noticed just how often he found himself staring into her eyes until they were not there. The fight was continuing round about them, but he couldn’t have cared less, lost in the moment of having her back.

“We’ve been together a long time, after all.”

The gentle smile that she gave him was one usually reserved for more private occasions; it did not suit the stoic, public Lt Hawkeye, so she believed anyway. It was the smile her remembered her wearing as a young woman, the one she graced him with on the odd occasion that they were alone in the office, the one he dreamed of seeing in his darkest moments. And in every moment of darkness, he reckoned she could always be his beacon of light.